WHEN our two souls stand up erect and strong,   Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,   Until the lengthening wings break into fire At either curving point,—what bitter wrong Can the earth do us, that we should not long   Be here contented? Think! In mounting higher,   The angels would press on us, and aspire To drop some golden orb of perfect song Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay   Rather on earth, Beloved—where the unfit Contrarious moods of men recoil away   And isolate pure spirits, and permit A place to stand and love in for a day,   With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.